Must tote hot packs from kitchen to bedroom.
Must give massages.
Must bring whiskey and ibuprofen.
Must tolerate woman.
Sheriff Mike did not understand moderation. I told him about my sciatic nerve problem. Six-eight weeks to heal or surgery. Dummy me to go to a doctor for them to tell me what Sista From Anotha Motha already diagnosed. Over the phone. She should be a doctor.
"Science Attic" nerve...ZERO fun. My "man self" pouts when I am sick and don't feel good. My "woman self" toughs through it and can bear any amount of pain...like childbirth, for instance. This wasn't close to that. Maybe close to kidney stones.
I can barely walk. Several times, the sharp pain would catch. Even the store keeps would see it and ask what was wrong. He still did not get it when I almost cried because I could go no further. I didn't cry, for the record. I said almost. I tolerate a lot of pain. I never complain.
We walked for miles along the antique corridor, town to town, building to building...stairs.
After I had enough, he wanted to go further and to the next town. I got grouchy inside, but portrayed sweet Fargo on the outside.
I asked to go home for the day at 6:00 PM. He didn't get it.
"Oh, but there is this one place I have to show you." A park, waterfalls, fountains, rose gardens...
It's not like me to snarl during adventures.
I didn't feel good. I hurt. I can't move. My left leg looks twice the size of the right one. I lost feeling in my left side coming down a three story grand staircase in an 1836 building. The Fargo tumble was not pretty. I mean, seriously? I fell down.
"Oh, but you can get up. Come on, I will help you. We still need to see the canal."
Well, fuck the canal.
The only conclusion I have today is that cops are stupid. You can't fix stupid.
Aunt Superwoman...he blushed when I mentioned you today again. Help me. At this rate, I am going to need a Rascal to get through the next weeks of adventures.
Now excuse me while I lay in bed in pain and stare at the ceiling. I think I will paint the ceiling beige.